


Phantasmagoria

by Chordewa



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Dark, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Content, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chordewa/pseuds/Chordewa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You dream of him often when it rains. Post-Valley of the End. HashiMada.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantasmagoria

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of an experiment, so please tell me your thoughts.
> 
> This work has been translated into Chinese by yaohan (find it here: http://tieba.baidu.com/p/4259649133).

You dream of him often when it rains.

Your eyes snap open in the dark, breath coming in ragged pants. The window is unlatched and beating in the wind, the creak of the hinge and the bang as it hits the wall quiet beneath the sound of driving rain. You hate that sound, especially with the nightmare so fresh in your mind. You reach across the bed for Mito, hoping—needing—the warm reality of her presence to feel anchored. Your arm meets empty air.

You freeze. Your throat tightens and you sit up slowly, turning your face into the damp breeze coming across the room.

There's a figure standing before the window, backlit by the streetlight across the road. A closer look isn't needed. You know who it is. " _Madara_."

He comes closer at the sound of his name, feet soundless on the floorboards. The yellow glare from outside gilds the edges of his silhouette. His face is pale, hair damp and mussed. Your heart lurches sickeningly at the sight of him, like always. The trouble is that he always looks so real.

Madara puts a knee on your marital bed and moves to straddle you. He's a cold weight on your thighs. You're naked beneath the sheet—Fire Country's summer nights are too hot for anything else—and wet from his clothes seeps into the blankets, plastering them to your skin. Madara's fully clothed, even still wearing sandals. Water drips from his hair onto your face and neck. The Sharingan blazes in Madara's eyes; his stare is flat and accusing. Cold hands touch your chest and you shiver. They slide up your clavicles and close around your throat.

The fingers tighten and you choke, some pointless sound dying in your throat as you will die if he keeps squeezing. Good. He doesn't want your useless apologies anyway. You don't deserve to apologise. Apologise, for KILLING him? _Bullshit_. Nothing you can say or do can make amends, save perhaps—

You _deserve_ it. That's a fact. So there's no resistance: though your hands grab at the blankets you don't try to touch him. Not to loosen his grip, not to make handseals, not to embrace him and cry into his hair about how sorry you are, because we've already established that _you_ _have no fucking right_. You're ready to die if he wants you to, ready to receive absolution of your guilt.

As if he'll make it that easy for you.

Madara lets go and when your vision clears enough you see him scowling, as if disappointed you can't even do this one simple thing the way he wants you to. What satisfaction – no, what kind of _peace_ is he supposed to feel over killing you when you're just lying there and taking it? Perhaps you feel ashamed about this, because his name is on your lips when he silences you with fingertips against your mouth. He doesn't want to hear you.

"Please," you say. " _Please._ " And oh how he hates you – surely that's what you see when you look into his eyes? Or perhaps not, given that you try to draw him close. Your grip goes beyond tender, it's careful, like you're afraid he'll dissipate into wisps of smoke and slip through your fingers if you hold him too tightly. It's a valid fear.

"What else?" he demands, swatting your hands from his shoulders. His voice is hoarser than you remember, with a strange, watery undertone. You flinch. Madara notices and bares his teeth in a skull grin. "Isn't it enough that I'm here?"

 _No_ is what you should say, but what comes out instead is, "Why?" and the false mirth vanishes from his face again, because _why do you think?_   Why else would he be here?

If you're remiss in your replies then so is he, because instead of telling you he's come to torment you, as he obviously has, Madara looks away. In this moment, he can't meet your eyes. "Would that I could be rid of you," his ghost says bitterly.

You say something in response and try to put your arms around him again, and again he knocks your greedy hands away, pinning them to the bed with his own. You're hard, he can feel that you are and he's disgusted, yet somehow not disgusted enough because he doesn't move away. In life when Madara fucked you he gasped and cursed and bit and clawed during the sex; Madara now is silent and still. Disturbed, you fight enough to sit up and kiss and bite at his neck, determined to taste salt on his skin, to feel blood flow beneath it. You won't. You made sure of that.

He leans his face into the crook of your neck and if you feel wetness there, you dismiss it as damp from his hair.

 

* * *

 

"Hashirama?"

Your eyes snap open in the dark, breath coming in ragged pants. The night air chills the cold sweat on your skin still further. In the doorway stands your wife, red hair tousled and glowing in the light of her candle like a halo, eyes blinking blearily. There's ink on one cheek where she fell asleep at her desk. She eyes you with concern.

" _Madara_ ," you practically sob. Her face is distorted by pity, though she doesn't know the half of it.

The window bangs against the wall in the breeze. Mito glances towards it. "It's cold," she says, though it's nothing of the sort, and crosses the room. "I'm certain I closed this earlier." She yanks the window shut and bolts it, muffling the hissing of the rain, though the drops still strike the glass. She moves back over to the bed to comfort you.

Out in the rain, in the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlamp, one shadow gazes up at the window for a few moments longer. It was unwise to come here. But I didn't lie to you, Hashirama.

I would be rid of you if only I _could_.


End file.
